


eke out the sugar

by madeinessos



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Consent Issues, Dark, F/F, Human/Vampire Relationship, Light Sadism, Manipulation, POV First Person, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27272698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/pseuds/madeinessos
Summary: Sugar. An odd, new word. Nevertheless, a delicious word.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	eke out the sugar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [K_Popsicle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Popsicle/gifts).



She told me that perhaps the object of my wonder was the sugar.

Sugar.

An odd word to me. Nevertheless, a delicious word. It was the fashion these days to put it not only in all manner of cakes but also in strange, new drinks.

“All of you eat it, all the time? Truly?”

That made her laugh in fond tones, her heavily-lidded eyes trained on my face, as though she were indulging a pet. I didn’t mind. In my time someone of my humble station had bowed very low to someone of her great station, and this seemed to be true still from what I had seen in Her Ladyship’s lands. Indeed I had been born, so long ago, to a dairymaid serving in an estate quite like this before I was given to God and the Church.

“Oh, my dear girl.” The lady was still smiling as she tapped my chin with her tasselled fan. There were creases on the corners of her dark eyes and silvery glints on the edges of her temples and a dash of rosy musk on the pulse of her neck.

“You ought to sit for a portrait of a saint,” she said. “Now, which saint suits a sweet, wide-eyed, soft-cheeked expression of wonder? Do you know of any sainted young women?”

I smiled blankly, vacuously. Just as I thought, she liked it. She liked it more than my brief display of fluent Latin and adequate Greek earlier, when I had prayed in her chapel. She liked it best, though, when I prayed wordlessly in her bedchamber.

The lady fancied herself my saviour and master most probably because it had been her tenants who found me sleeping in her woods. Sugar had been in the piece of cake she fed me when I first awoke in her house some nights ago, naked but for a beribboned silk nightgown. I remembered feeling awestruck and rather confused then, the world of this richly appointed room blurry at the edges from my searing hunger and fresh sleepiness. And I remembered the lady smiling widely down at my dazed blinking. She had dressed me in pinks and pale frothy colours ever since, as though much delighted by the contrast it made with my black hair, which had been shorn by the abbess to just above my shoulders years and years ago. Sugar had also been on the fruits she had fed me with her own hands, cold with jewelled rings, after I told her I used to be a novice, which was true. But it was nothing to the lady. Or perhaps it was everything, my being a novice, for she continued to feed me and pet me and —

She trailed the ivory stick of her fan from my chin to my chest.

To my belly.

To my hip.

I let my lips part slightly, and I hooked an arm around her shoulder. My knee bumped the carved armrest of her favourite chair. The pink ribbons of the nightgown were fluttering, sliding, melting along the ivory. Then she dug it hard in my thigh and, when I bit my lip and squirmed on her lap, she teased it along the ever-rising hem. “I also take it in my tea,” she said, lips hot against the shell of my ear.

She was full of this sugar. This delicious word. Oh, how to describe it. Not honey. Not juicy, sticky fruits. A burst of heaven, perhaps. Or my first mouthful of that red wetness, so long ago, which I doubt was sanctioned by heaven.

“Your Ladyship must be very sweet,” said I, with another blank smile.

Indeed she was.

I ate whatever she fed me, for I knew that it pleased her to keep me thus, her little w —

Oh, if the abbess could see me now. If my mother could see me now. My list of sins was endless, it trailed into hell, and it began with my speaking out loud when I was supposed to have taken a vow of silence. A silent Order of nuns it had been.

And anyway this pleased me, too. All of this.

The bowls of sugar. The sweet tremble she coaxed, she wrenched, from my hips and thighs. The shameless sounds I made. The good fire in this tapestried room. Being invited, as it were, again and again and again, in Her Ladyship’s lands full of tenants, in her household of hundreds. This lady who so revelled in her power, master of every league of her horizon. For I knew her lordly kind. Oh, I do indeed. I would have been utterly in her mercy had she found me years ago — 300 years, perhaps, or was it 400, frankly I would rather not know — when I had been as frail as I looked and truly a girl of barely twenty, of a humble station, and she a tall and robust lady. All of this pleased me greatly that I was coming to believe that this, after all, must be heaven after my long sleep.

Heaven, a feast.

Her hot, red wetness pleased me as well. It pleased me the most.

When the night was deep and after she had sated herself with me, I would kiss her sweetly. Redly. This was my most favourite feeding of the day. I always wrapped my arms and my thighs around her, with all my strength. She always moaned jaggedly, eyes rolling back, brows in a pained sweaty furrow – oh, how I loved her twitching and shuddering, her fists slackening into claws; it was different from when she was fucking me – then she would promptly descend into deep slumber.

Sometimes I could go on even as she slept.

Like tonight. I fed and fed and fed, as my cunt still ached pleasantly from her relentless ivory stick. I fed so deeply that I supposed I was licking right into the deepest depths of her – dark and wet and pulsing madly in time with her heart – right into her writhing soul.

In the morning she would wake lightheaded and remedy this with a pot of sugared tea. Incidentally, of late, I kept volunteering to stir the sugar into her cup, after which I would languidly clean off the teaspoon with my tongue, thrilled at the sugary silver, whilst I sat leaning against her leg.

Did she know what I truly was? She’d never asked. She never asked me for anything, naturally; she only took. Or was it the new custom for lovers to lap up blood before sleep, in this new world of commonplace sugar?

Before dawn, with my mouth happily full of the taste of sugar and blood, I cuddled close to her. Nosed at her strong neck. Stroked her long wine-dark curls. Observed her in her sleep. I traced her arrogant lips which often told me, couched in artful words and falsely cajoling tones, that she would not let me go from her house.

Invited in, again and again and again. In a household of hundreds.

What lovely lips. Sweet, as well.

Perhaps I could make a portrait of her from memory, but hopefully not for a long time. My artistic skills were sadly crude so it might take a while to hone them, nevermind that it had been ages since I had picked up a writing instrument.

Besides.

Her lordly sugary blood, well, I wanted it to last for quite a while.

_fin_


End file.
